The Act of Dreaming
by fierysuzaku
Summary: Even nations dream. Cast within the webs of slumber and memories, they escape into a world of their own, twisted by hidden desires, fears, and the mere concept of something so tangible and confusing eludes them so that they could only recall the mere gist of it once they wake. (only slight hints of FrUK)


Even nations dream. Cast within the webs of slumber and memories, they escape into a world of their own, twisted by hidden desires, fears, and the mere concept of something so tangible and confusing eludes them so that they could only recall the mere _gist_ of it once they wake.

The way their heart pounded.

The way their hands reached out into the darkness as a gasp escaped their parched lips.

The moment they woke up crying, trying to breathe as they whisked the shadows away.

The moment when they rose to feel an uncanny sense of freedom – a sense of detachment and silence from the usual noise that followed – overcame them in its particularity.

Yes, even nations dream. May it be in mere imagination conjured by nostalgia and of boredom or a mere form of escape, they dream.

Blood. Shadows and lies.

Sunshine. Blue skies and love.

* * *

Scotland dreams of death. Most would likely assume it was another nightmare, for it was common amongst their kind and sometimes there are certain things you cannot pretend to forget, but sometimes it is not.

Sometimes, he'd rise to find his pillow soak with tears while a familiar tight feeling settled in his chest. In other days, he'll greet the day with a lonely smile, full of nostalgia and bittersweet memories. And on rare days, he'll wake up calm and happy, for despite everything that happened, they all ended up _fine_. His family. Truly, not the perfect and loving sort, but he's contented to know that everyone's safe, no longer in the threat of conquest and death.

_For now._

So he dreams. Dreams of her long golden locks tied into a braid and forest green eyes that seem to darken and shift between the shades of emerald and jade. She was magical that way, they way her strong fingers transform into the softest most gentle of caresses and how her voice managed to quell the chaos of four wild boys.

She was strong. She was brave. She was, as Rome called her, Britannia but for him and his brothers, she was known as Mother. She loved them. Cared and protected them, away from the harms of the unknown and the harshness of life. To them, she was their world, with her, they found peace and happiness and that was enough.

But life is cruel is it not?

"_Màthair," a small whimper came from the youngest, he unlike the others bore the most of her features and it had made them sometimes wonder why, for Alba and Eire had red hair, Eire's having a bit more of a coppery tone as compared to Alba's more prominent red while Cymru held a nice chestnut brown. So yes, to find that their new brother looking like that made them all feel a bit jealous sometimes, as if by simple looks alone he managed to gain their mother's favor. _

It was a silly thought but aren't all children prone to silly thoughts.

"_Hush, little one. Sleep," the woman said as she began to croon him a lullaby, the lad had been feeling a bit under the weather recently, and it does not help with Rome here constantly trying to pillage and conquer their lands. _

"_Màthair, you look pale," it was Cymru this time, and he couldn't help but agree as he took in her features, she looked _**_thinner_**_, fatigue and frustration prominent in her brows and how her once proud shoulders seemed to stoop, as if placed under a great weight. _

_She merely smiled, despite all the battles and pain, her smile was beautiful as always, albeit a tad less brighter now. She opened her arms, gesturing all of them to come nearer as she engulfed them in a tight embrace along with the sleeping child cradled upon her breast, like she was drawing strength from them as they did so with her._

_She was their protector. There was nowhere else in the world would they ever feel more safe and secure than within her warmth. _

"_I love you," she whispered, it suddenly occurred to him how _**_cold_**_ she felt. _

"_Màthair?" he asked wonderingly, concern painted upon his features and judging from the looks of the others, they noticed it too. _

"_You are all strong boys... take care of each other now," she said, her green eyes so solemn and sad despite the small smile upon her lips. _

**_No! She is not supposed to be sad. What is she talking about?_**

"_But you take care of us!" It was Eire, fear was starting to strain his voice, for they could all feel it. She was fading. She was _**_dying_**_. _

**_No! No! No! No! No! No! NO!_**

_Her eyes, once so bright now dull, softened with affection and apology. _

"_Take care of Albion," she whispered, cupping their wet cheeks and covering them with kisses and assurances._

"_You are strong and brave boys."_

"_You'll do just fine."_

"_You are mine. And you are brothers. _**_Never_**_ forget that."_

With those words Scotland wakes, eyes full of tears as the familiar pinpricks of nostalgia strike him. He wipes them away, turning his attention to the calendar on his bedside, he realized the day.

It was time.

* * *

America dreams of impossible things. Giant robots. Unlimited supplies of hamburger and soda. Intergalactic relations. World Peace. He dreams like a child. So carefree and light, one wonders how such a strong nation retains such brightness.

After all, every nation is tainted. Behind the smiles and false naivety, they are all far too old and far too experienced to actually believe it.

China is no fool.

Russia is no victim.

England is no role model.

Yes, England is no such thing. He used to be, but there was this thing called 'growing up' that forced his eyes open to the truth. England was no hero. Sure, he was a good dad and brother but it did not really change the fact that _his_ people were suffering under _his_ rule

Just because England was great to _him_ means the atrocities _his_ people had done to him would be ignored. Besides, he is a bitter grouch, full of acid and venom that could rival the creatures found in Australia's home turf.

"Stupid England," he muttered, a frown marring his usually smiling features as he took a long look at the calendar.

_July 4._

The all too familiar sting behind his eyes became apparent as he recalled more than several decades worth of rejection and excuses.

"_You know I get sick on that day..."_

"_You're in Canada right now aren't you! You go to his birthday but not to mine, why?" _

"_Because, oh, I don't know. He didn't have a bloody revolution that makes be cough up blood for a whole damn day!"_

"_That's a lie! You go to every other old colony except mine. You –"_

"_Are you done? Because the last thing I want to do is to listen to you whine. You're not a child anymore, so act like it!"_

"Stupid England," he said once more, after recalling that one particularly heated argument. It wasn't like he _doesn't_ understand. He knows that his former guardian is basically incapacitated on his birthday, but just the basic fact that he manages to come to every other colony's birthday makes him all bitter and angry inside.

"_Amerique, you shouldn't look so sad today."_

"_France…"_

"_Upset that Angleterre, is not here to celebrate your big day again?"_

"_You'd think that after all this time, I'll eventually stop trying…"_

"_Non."_

"_What?"_

"_The silly little rabbit is just shy. Probably, embarrassed how immature he acted when you first tried to invite him. But he'll get over it… eventually… just. don't. stop. trying."_

"Stupid England," he sighed as the little pep talk with France surfaced. It helped, in a way. It made him realize that despite his apparent absence over the recent years, England never failed to send out his gifts – well thought out gifts, sometimes handmade and personalized. It wasn't what he wanted but it was progress.

"How rude, here I am, coming all this way to visit you and I end up getting insulted."

Blue eyes widen in shock as he turned to the all too familiar voice.

"E-England?"

For a moment, he dared to pinch himself. _Ouch!_

"Really now, America. You're gathering flies. Stop gaping like a damn –"

England wasn't able to finish as he got the majority of the air knocked out of him when Alfred engulfed him in a big hug.

"You came. You _actually_ came."

His embrace tightened as he felt his eyes prickle.

_I will not cry. I will not cry. Dammit, America! Don't fucking cry!_

"Are you crying?" he questioned with a shocked incredulous tone.

"No! I just got something in my eye," he retorted, still not letting go.

"You're here." He sniffed. He felt like a child. A big vulnerable child finally getting what he'd always dreamed of.

England was _here_.

_Finally_ here!

Wait, England was _here_.

"Are you done lad, because my legs would truly appreciate regaining their blood supply once more."

It was then he noticed that England was actually hugging him back. His tone gentle and calm. A small smile laced his usually frowning lips.

"You're here," he said, a lot calmer and cautious, finally disengaging them from the emotional embrace.

_Why is he here?_

England's smile quirked, he took a seat on a nearby couch and he faced him with strange look of hesitation and shyness.

_Is he blushing?_

"England? Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes, a bit tired from traveling that's all. I actually came here to talk," his face turned stern once more, as if ready to discuss battle plans or something.

"Talk," he echoed in mild confusion which England answered with a stiff nod.

"Okay, shoot!"

"I know I haven't been exactly fair to you these past decades. I –"

"You were coughing up blood. I think I could understand why..." he cut him off only to be cut off in turn.

"I haven't coughed up blood in many years," he confessed, his forest green eyes no longer meeting his blue ones.

"Oh." He suddenly felt a big lump catch on his throat.

"And for that I apologize. It was terribly prideful of me. Immature even. I –"

"Does that mean you're finally fine with the whole revolution thing?" he suddenly blurted because despite everything being laid out, he chose that one particular rope to pull.

"Yes… I am," he nodded in ascent, as if finally admitting you're no longer angry or bitter about something is some great task.

"Does that mean I can call you Arthur again?" he asked, his voice small and shy. It was like being a colony all over again. So afraid and hesitant that the mere request would break all the progress built.

"What?"

_Of course, he doesn't remember. _

"During World War II, you said I lost the right to call you that… that," a pause, a small crack in his veneer of calm, he took a deep breath and continued, "on the day America was free was the day, Alfred your brother died." He shouldn't bring up such harsh memories, especially in such a fragile state of things. But there are some things they both need to face.

_"The day you were born was the day my son, my little brother __**died**__. And now, I see nothing but a __**brat**__ who had developed too fast and too strong that his own mentality wasn't able to cope up with the growth."_

_"__**Do not**__ use my name with such familiarity. You have __**long**__ relinquished that right. It's England. Britain. Mr. Kirkland if you must, but __**never**__ Arthur." _

"Alfred."

"It's been so long since I heard you call me that," he whispered. He dared to smile as tears threatened to flow.

Another breath.

"I'm not mad you know. Pretty upset, yeah. We were both just so angry and bitter… I'm actually just really happy that we can start fixing things…" America continued as tears fell once more – it clouded his vision, blurred and misshapen. Eventually, he found himself in _his_ arms once more, Arthur whispering words of comfort and apologies as he held him like a child.

"I'm so sorry."

"Stupidly prideful aren't I… hush, now child, it's not your fault..."

"Yes, things between us will be better now…"

The words washed over him as the jag refused to stop. So much missed birthdays. So much pain and guilt festering over the years finally dug out all for the world to see. So ugly and twisted. It was like his heart was getting squeezed as the arms around him grew tighter and tighter.

"Don't be silly. You've grown up quite well all on your own. So brave and strong. I'm proud of you."

Warm rough hands upon his wet cheeks while a chaste lingering kiss was laid upon his forehead.

"R-Really?" he blinked through the tears, his vision finally clearing as he met a pair of bright emeralds look at _him_. Not at ghost of his past. Not at the nation who is but an acquaintance. But at _him_, Alfred.

"Really. Happy Birthday Alfred."

"Thanks, Arthur."

America dreams of the impossible. And sometimes, even impossible dreams _can_ actually come true. The next day, Alfred wakes up to greet reality smiling.

* * *

On bad nights, France dreams of fire. He dreams of rolling heads littering his town square while the smell of smoke permuted in the air, choking him as his throat burned with the screams of his people. The glint of the guillotine. The sharp blade, almost red with blood while its mirror like surface seemed to glow orange as it was cast against the backdrop of destruction and chaos.

He dreams of explosions. Guns. The scent of gunpowder lingering upon his fingers. Mines. The impact and shocks racking through his weary frame as pieces of shrapnel and charred flesh scattered. He feels muddy. A mixture of blood and wet earth coating and hardening into his uniform making him stiffer and heavier than he already is. _Showers. _On those nights, he gasps and claws for air willing away the images of death around him.

He dreams of people burning. He dreams of _her_. He dreams of her smiles. Her assurances. Her loyalty. Her love. Her _screams_.

Horrified distant screams of a woman he wanted yet failed to save. The angry crowd throwing out accusations and curses. The image of her once fair features blistering and darkening with each hot greedy lick. The fire raged on like an angry demon ravaging her, consuming her.

The dream shifts.

The crowds disappeared. The voices, silenced by a peace so deafening it made his ears ring. For that once second of silence, he was calm. And then it shattered as the gratingly familiar sound of cracks and splintering reached his ears. The fire burns still. Glowing and blazing, stronger than ever before. His eyes narrow at the harsh light and smoke only to widen when he saw the _new_ figure burning.

_**NO.**_

This was one of those nights.

He woke up screaming. Grasping into the darkness as his searched for _that_ assurance. That _comfort_.

He was alive. His hammering heart is proof.

_Breathing_. He relished each breath of fresh air his lungs took in.

There are no crowds. It was night time. He was alone. It was quiet. _Peaceful_.

Yet he remained stiff. Hands shook as they clenched the sheets, his knuckles turned white refusing to let go. And eventually he did. He forced himself to. There is something he must do. With a still shaking hand, he reached for the phone and pressed speed dial, hoping that the call would not be missed.

"This better be bloody important!" The familiar snap and fire of his old neighbor calmed him, grounding him to this reality. _This_ time. _This_ moment.

"I had a bad dream," he whispered, hating how easy it was to explain his predicament.

_How many nights I wonder?_

How many nights did he seek for this comfort? How many bad nights did he try to escape from? How many times did he repay the favor by doing the same thing in turn?

"Which one?"

How many nights did they spend talking about dreams that they began to familiarize and categorize these night terrors.

"Francis. Tell me." With a shuddering breath he talked. Useless bits and pieces. Things he barely remembered as the last dredges of the dream began to fade. Dreams are strange that way. Always are.

"I – I don't remember… the face… I knew it was someone I _know_ but I… Arthur, I – " He started to hyperventilate.

"Do you want me there?" The question hung unanswered as he regained his regular pace of breath. Arthur could effortlessly cross the distance, he _knows_ that. In fact, one of the perks of being a nation is that they can travel via 'teleportation' or something akin to that. Yes, it would require great energy as well as the nation's permission but they've been crossing each other's borders for so long, they barely feel the weight and drag of it. Also, much to their embarrassment, they've granted each other the permission to travel each other's lands till time indefinite.

"_What were our child selves thinking! Granting such freedom to a nation."_

"_Yes, we were awfully naïve and trusting, mon lapin."_

"_Understatement of the millennia, Frog."_

"_Oui, but we never dared exploit that right, did us not?"_

"_We did make a promise."_

"_One of the few promises we actually managed to keep." _

"You don't need my permission _Angleterre_. If you miss me that much…" he jeered, telling the one at the other end that such troubles were not needed and that he's going to be fine.

The anticipated barb did not come. That worried him.

"Angleterre? Are you there?" he asked only to meet silence.

_Did the call disconnect?_ He thought as he listened in for the telltale sound of disconnection only to hear nothing but the buzz of static.

"I'm going there." He was a bit startled when Arthur finally spoke.

"What? But I said I'm –" he protested, not liking the uncharacteristic behavior the other sported. Then again, he was the one that roused the grumpy island from a proper sleep.

"I _know_ what you said. I just want to visit you, that's all."

"At midnight?" he deadpanned.

"Yes. At midnight." Arthur echoed in his tone making him frown.

"But –"

The call disconnected. Moments later, his doorbell rang (quite a useless gesture considering the circumstances). He heard a jangle of keys (he once gave England a copy of his house key as a joke saying that his door is always open if he feels lonely and if in need of extra cuddling, he never thought he'd actually keep it and he was too lazy to change locks anyways) and a soft knock at the bedroom door.

"You know, I find it highly unfair that I still don't have a copy of your house key, _mon lapin_."

"What's the point if you already stole the spare key under the flower pot, Frog?"

_The rabbit knows!_

"Did you have a bad night as well?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Better late than never."

He scooted over, the sheets rustling as the other laid beside him.

"What's wrong?"

There a slow beat of silence just before Arthur took a breath and started his story. The dream was a sad one. A lonely one. He said nothing as he held the other. Shuddering breaths and soft hesitant words. Apologies. Assurances. On that night, they both tell their stories as they descent into sleep and wake up with their arms entangled in tight embrace.

The thought, 'It'll be all right', lay unspoken between them.

* * *

England has a habit of daydreaming. Contrary to what other nations might think, he too tends to drift off during those nasty overly-redundant meetings about topics like global warming and how America was going to collaborate with Japan in building a giant robot to lower the global crime rate. His mind could fabricate tales, rile up old embers of adventure and nostalgia, the list goes on.

On sunny days he dreams about the sea. The lazy sway of the waves. The salty scent of the winds. On those days, his eyes would shine a bit brighter, his posture a bit more lax yet utterly intimidating. On these days of nostalgia, it would be best for him and Spain to stay away from each other, for nostalgia is contagious, it seeps into the very marrow of your bones rousing up a thought to be dead fire within. And the world does not want to see those fires turn ablaze once more.

Alfred once told him when the bitterness and conflicts were still fresh upon them that he will never understand freedom. Claiming, that he, in his arrogance, _forgot_.

_Foolish boy. _

His desires and dreams for freedom were just as strong, perhaps even stronger and more savage, when he was nothing but a child under Rome's thumb he learned to _grow_. He could still find that flicker, that inner burn, but it has morphed over the centuries that it became something else entirely.

Conquest. Riches. _Power_. The sun never setting. The rush was addicting. Invigorating. It was a feeling that perhaps only a few nations could truly understand. He never forgot freedom, he _thrived_ in it. He was _intoxicated_ by it.

_When you stand at the epitome of power with the world literally on the palm of your hand, you will understand what __**true**__ freedom feels. Fears? Paranoia? Ha! They crumbled and fade against my light of power and influence. In that perfect moment, I was __**untouchable**__._

On cloudy ones, his thoughts drifted off to the old days of yore where he was nothing but a child running around to catch woodland creatures.

_Those were the days…_

Sometimes, he dreams up fairytales and adventures to pass the time. His lips would curl and his shoulders would grow slack as the image of dancing pixies and singing mermaids filled his head.

"Albion."

The reverie broke.

He squared his shoulders just a bit and asked.

"What's the verdict?"

"Independence."

He gave a small stiff nod in reply as his chair swiveled to face the speaker.

"Congratulations are in order then, where do I sign?" he said, as he took out his pen. Scotland wordlessly handed him the documents, usually, these things should be done in a ceremonial style, where they formally part with the other nations standing as witnesses and a big independence party would occur. But they were never the usual sort and modern day efficiency demanded that they skip such unnecessary drivel. So they skipped the ceremony and just went on with paperwork at Scotland.

He could feel his brother's hard gaze on him as he began reading the pages of thick formalities and agreements.

"Is there something wrong Alba?" he asked with a sighed as he looked up to meet a familiar pair of observant emeralds that narrowed in suspicion.

"Yer taking this quite well…" The words were hesitant, pondering as the statement slipped past the caution and the non-existent filter.

"I have long been used to… _this_."

In the past, he would have referred to it as abandonment. _Betrayal_. But times have changed and old wounds no matter how deep heal eventually so long as one can stop himself from clawing at it in sheer irritation and impatience.

"And what is '_this'_?"

"A secession. What else is there?"

"Okay, I'll bite. How's the separation treatin' ya?"

A shrug.

"I don't know. It didn't sink in yet."

_Every separation takes time after all. _

"Yer in pain then," he said, a rather worried tone caught in his words.

"No. Just… tired."

"Just _tired_…" The disbelief was strong in his voice and Arthur couldn't really blame him for it. After all, he was not the first one to secede. He had seen the damage it brought upon him. He was there when the empire began to crumble. He was there for the groans of pain, those feverish nights, every separation affected him differently. He was about to reply when he was cut off by the door slamming against the wall.

"There you are! We've been looking for you!"

"America?" The look of confusion and surprise on Scotland's face was priceless. Clearly, he wasn't expecting visitors on this certain day.

"Ireland threw you this huge party at your house and –"

"Eire did what!"

"A party! What? Did you think we're gonna let a fellow nation's independence pass? No way! Come on!" Alfred then proceeded to dragging a speechless Scot out of the room leaving England once more with his thoughts.

_Peace at last._ He thought as he leaned back into the chair, allowing his mind to drift off once more. Images of gossamer wings and glowing unicorns pervaded his mind as his senses began to recall, the scent of earth and the feel of grass upon his feet. Sometimes he wished to go back. Back to the days when he was nothing but an island. Back to the days when he was nothing more but Albion.

A sigh escaped, weary and heavy as it left his lungs, the ties of the past tightening ever so slightly only to loosen when he noticed that he wasn't alone.

"It's rude to linger on doorways, lad," he said earning a startled gasp.

"I-I didn't mean to intrude… Are you all right? You've been sitting there like a statue I thought you went into some kind of trance," he replied, his violet gaze settling on the drab carpet floor while his hands crossed to position themselves on his sides clenching edges of his shirt.

"More or less. Is there something wrong Matthew?" he asked, his thick brows furrowing with worry. Canada was rarely nervous around him nowadays, over the years, he had learned to get over the conditioned reflex of flinching whenever his tone got too sharp or avoiding his gaze when something was terribly amiss.

"No! It's just that…" he trailed off, a small frown laced his lips as his brows scrunched up in thought.

"Just what Matthew?" he pried, not missing how the other's hands tightened ever so slightly making the knuckles white.

"I'm worried about what's going to happen. Scotland's not like us. He's not a colony. You and he were in a _union_. Arthur, please tell me the truth," his tone was soft, pleading as a pair of violets finally decided to meet his emerald ones.

"My body feels heavy. It's like every part of me is numb and I can't feel anything and whenever I move, it's like pulling weights," he admitted, defeat and resignation strong in his tone as he sank deeper in to the chair while the other's lips thinned at the admission.

"Do need help going home?" he offered, earning a small smile and a nod from the former guardian as he helped him stand.

"Ready?" he asked, tightening his hold on the other's waist while maneuvering Arthur's arm over his broad shoulders. With a simple nod, they crossed the distance from Edinburg to London.

"Just like the old days. I never did tell you how thankful I was that you stayed. Even if I tended to confuse you with your brother… I have to say, you've grown quite well on your own, lad," he as Matthew helped him navigate through his London home.

"T-Thanks. Arthur, are you _sure_ you're all right?" he asked again, clearly noticing his unusually nostalgic mood.

"Perfectly sober," he had the audacity to sport a wry grin making the other flush. After all, he was usually only this nostalgic when he had consumed a certain amount of spirits.

"I-I wasn't im-implying – " he stuttered in discomfort.

"Nonsense. I'm sorry you know… I didn't mean to neglect you like that," he apologized, knowing just how he abused the drink during Canada's colonial years. The Revolution was fresh and he needed something to steep the pain and make him forget. Alcohol did both. Only, it made him forget other things as well.

"It's in the past. You're better now."

"Yes, I am," he sighed as they eventually made it to his bedroom. Matthew helped him out of his suit and gave him a pair of sweatpants and a sweater to keep him warm.

"I apologize about Alfred by the way. He tends to ignore everything else when it comes to parties," he said, huffing just a bit as his lips bloomed into an annoyed pout.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to leave you behind," he comforted.

"I meant, you."

"Oh."

"Arthur… please tell me you're actually fine," he asked, his gaze still meeting his but his hands shook in nervous energy.

"We both know the answer to that. Every separation is different. Sometimes I get fevers, other times I get these terrible migraines. And sometimes, I just feel like it's an ordinary day until it fully sets in," he explained, the furrow between Matthew's brows only deepened along with his frown.

"I think I speak for everyone when I say you did your best when you took care of us."

"What?"

"Us. Your former colonies. We don't always say it but you mean a lot to us. Even if our countries aren't as connected as it was in the past. Even after the atrocities your people did to ours, we still value you as someone very dear to us, may it be as father or as a friend, you will always be Arthur to us. So if there's anything, _anything_ wrong, please tell us, because believe it or not, you're not alone Arthur," he was holding on to England's hand now, his hand curling over the other's calloused fingers, his eyes refusing to balk under the other's unnaturally imposing gaze. There was always something about those green eyes he and his siblings sport.

"I am proud of you. _All_ of you. I hope you don't forget that. My sons and daughters growing so brave and strong. But please dear one, this is my burden to bear, not yours or the others'."

There was silence once more, the impressible moment when Matthew released a deep breath of calm as his hands finally decided to steady once more was not lost on him.

"You should get some rest Arthur. You really need it. The election placed a lot of strain on you," he said, finally pulling away.

"Thank you. Now, go and enjoy Alba's party. I'm fine here on my own," he gave him a smile of assurance when he saw the violet depths mar with a shadow of hesitance. Only after repeated forceful coaxing and half-meant threats did the younger nation finally conceded, thinking that the elder one desired some time alone for a while.

Upon Matthew's leave, he began settling into his bed. He was just about to doze off and succumb to the Sandman's spell when he heard an all too familiar greeting.

"Hey, Jerkland!"

He sighed.

"Do you need something Peter?" he asked turning to meet the child's bright blue gaze.

"It's Sealand. Stop calling me that," he pouted, crossing his thin arms as he brandished the signature British Isle stubbornness.

"Why? It is your name," he retorted, obviously not giving into the boy's demands.

"Yeah, thanks for naming me after the boy who never grows up. Honestly, acknowledge me already!"

"His personality suits you. And I do acknowledge you, I'm talking to you am I not?" he raised a questioning brow as the other relinquished a heavy sigh.

"I meant as a nation. When are you finally going to acknowledge me as a nation!"

"Peter, why are you here?" he dodged as he focused on the main point of things making the fiery streak in the boy falter.

"I-I just want to repay the favor… you did show me the ropes how it was like being a country and stuff… sort of," he answered his tone and volume dwindling with each passing syllable.

_Ah, yes. __**That**__ occurrence. _He thought, recalling the weekend he offered to take care of Peter after seeing a rather grumpy Swede confronted him with a look that told him.

_Take the boy, __**or else**_.

The weekend went along unusually smooth with all things considered. Peter even asked for an extended stay, eliciting suspicious looks from the Nordic couple. They didn't really delve on what he did to quell the boy's rambunctious energy seeing some things are better left unsaid.

"_Come on, __**please**__. __**Pretty please**__, with __liquore__d __Knickerbocker Glories on top."_

"_For goodness' sake, lad. Let me work!"_

"_I just want to watch! What so bad about watching?"_

"_All right fine. But if I find you breathing down my neck __**again**__, I'm going to tell the fae to send you to the Otherworld for the rest of your stay."_

"_Tink would __**never**__ do something that mean… and besides, this is the closest thing to nation duty I get. My boss doesn't even let me near these types of documents. I only __**look**__ like a kid you know. "_

"_Oh, stop that moping. If you really want to know these things that badly, I guess I __**could**__ show you."_

"_Really!"_

"_Just the __**overview**__. Do not expect me to write you a manual about it. There are some things only a fully __**acknowledged**__ nation can understand."_

"_But you'll still teach me right? Answer questions and all that stuff."_

"_You're pushing it brat."_

"_Thank you Arthur!"_

"_Yes, yes. Now, unhand so I could finally get some work done."_

"And how exactly are you going to repay me, boy?"

"Well, since you're all bedridden, I suppose I could just spend the night with you. I don't think it's good for you to be alone on this day."

"You don't have to do this Peter," he sighed.

"Yes, I do." There it was again. That bright spark of stubbornness and pride.

"Okay, you win. But mind you, I cannot do much in this state."

"You can read me a story!" he suggested, suddenly fishing out a thick book of stories so old that even _he_ forgot existed.

"I thought stories were for kids?" he mused, a smirk lacing his lips as the boy flushed.

"S-Shut up. I like your stories okay," he pouted, hugging the old tome to his chest like it would shield him from Arthur's amusement.

"You are aware that this is basically a fairy tale right?" he reminded while gingerly leafing through the pages of stories written in dead languages.

"I like magical beings. They're nice. They actually pay attention to me," he admitted, as he took refuge under the covers, lending Arthur more warmth.

It was comforting.

"You've been talking to mermaids again," he guessed when he saw how the pale blue eyes refuse to meet his gaze.

"They're not going to drown me or anything," he mumbled, grabbing a pillow to replace the book he held close.

"Just be careful. They work with their own rules," he said, his hands settled at the thick texts.

"Please, it's like the only thing you willingly taught me. Anything else was like pulling teeth," he scoffed as his eyes grew soft at the memories.

"It was necessary. Unlike the others, you actually have a good chance of getting taken. Being stuck in proverbial youth and having the Sight required you to be prepared in case they get a bit mischievous," he explained making the other sigh in reluctant acceptance.

"Yes, well. _I am_ a Kirkland," he replied earning a smile from the older nation.

"That you are my boy. That you are. Now, about our story," he acknowledged just before they trailed off into the world of magic and adventure. Where the land was green as emeralds, wild and free. Magic flourished and the Fair People roamed the land. They go back and lose themselves into the stories of yore and nostalgia.

" _Albion!"_

"_W-Who are you? __**What**__ are you?"_

"_I am what I am. I am a Flying Mint Bunny."_

"_What is a bunny doing here? Are you not to be in Gaul's land?"_

"_Surely where I hail does not matter. I am your friend after all."_

"_F-Friend? You are a friend?"_

"_Verily, it is so, as with the other Fair Folk that roam your lands. Care to meet them?"_

"_Y-Yea…"_

"Oi! Stop your moping Albion!"

He almost jumped at the loud voice along with a chorus of rancorous laughter echoing through his halls.

"I know how little you care of my comfort Eire, but please mind the sleeping child," he frowned as his gaze met a pair of amused emeralds whose bearer was casually leaning against the door frame.

The relationship between the two of them was still rocky to say the least. On normal days, they are civil with each other. On bad days, they avoid each other like the Black Plague. But on good days, they actually act like brothers.

Yes, despite how the Irish dislike his people, they've learned – _all_ of them learned – that channeling too much of your people's passion is dangerous considering how such little things can be magnified into ridiculously stupid proportions. Usually ending either of them black and blue.

"_Never again. Are ye listening to me? Eire! Albion!" _

"_Fine. Don't talk. Just listen ye bloody eeejits! Ye ken that we cannae do this anymore. Aye, we fight. We go to war. But we're too old to let our people's passions dictate us like that!_

"_Now, I'm not asking ye two to forget or ignore what happened, I'm just asking ye not to drag yer national troubles into stupid petty shite." _

"Aw~ the lad kept you company then…" he grinned, entering the room dragging an old chair with him. Normally, he'd scold the other for ruining his carpet but he was not in the mood to be ludicrously petty right now.

"You could say that…" he said as his gaze moved to the sleeping child beside him, allowing Eire to take a look at the book.

"Now, this takes me back." He heard him say when he heard the faint rustling of the pages.

"Where are the others?" he asked, his gaze still on Peter as the boy mumbled something in his sleep making Arthur smile.

"Trying to get North to bed, I think."

"Good luck with that. It's going take a while for the party hype to wear off," he scoffed earning a chuckle of agreement from the other. Northern Ireland, the only girl amongst the Kirkland clan, could rival America on a sugar rush if in top form. They don't know where she gets it but they suspected that the fae gave the little pre-teen something to combat the effects of nationhood and the side effects included slow growth and boundless energy that needed to be spent lest they want an insomniac 12 year old child crossing distances from one border to another.

"_North! Are you all right?"_

"_I'm fine, Arthur. I'm not in pain or anything…"_

"_But you –" _

"_Got bombed? Yeah, I can feel it but I can't __**feel**__ it. It's strange… it feels like I'm detached from my people and only seeing them through a thin veil. But it's better this way right? If I don't feel pain, I won't hate Ireland right? I don't want to hate him or you, Arthur."_

"Arthur!" There was only one Kirkland who actually preferred to address him with his human name while the rest opted for his old nation name.

"North, keep your voice down," he warned as he watched the coppery redhead bound in with a wide grin making her freckles on the apples of her cheeks more prominent.

"Oops. Sorry. Are you feeling better? The days almost ending so you might be feeling better," she grinned as she finished off the statements in rapid fire.

"Shouldn't you be in bed young lady," he said in a rather stern tone while her grin morphed into a sheepish smile.

"I wanted to say goodnight first," she blushed as a small pout blossomed upon her lips.

"Goodnight then," he smiled, giving her a small peck on the cheek which she returned.

"Goodnight, Arthur," she echoed as she slipped out of the room surprising her two brothers with her quick compliance.

"North's got a point there, she did. The hard official part is over. You'll be your loud annoying arse of a self in no time."

"I'm guessing the party ended too soon for you all," he sighed, leaning back deeper into the pillows.

"Well, it was fun and all but the little Italian wasn't really comfortable…" he said with a shrug.

"Alba scared him shitless," Arthur deadpanned.

"Understatement." Both brothers turned to the new arrival whose dark chestnut locks and emerald eyes were highlighted by the golden amber glow of the bedside lamp as he too took seat, dragging the a chair beside the bed. Wales all but snorted in amusement as he added to his tale, "He practically begged Germany and his brother to leave. Making Antonio and Gilbert leave. Making Francis leave. A domino effect really."

"And this doesn't bother the birthday boy?" Arthur asked with his head tilted to the side as a small smirk quirked upon his lips.

"You and everyone in this room all know that we're told old for that shite," Scotland said as he joined his brothers, opting to choose the foot of the bed as his seat.

"You had fun then," he concluded.

"Yeah, didn't get as guttered as we wanted though. You being bedridden and all," he admitted making Arthur laugh.

"Just you, me and North left huh Albion," Wales mused, his eyes turning soft as Arthur nodded in agreement.

"You sure you're not getting ideas Cymru?" Ireland teased, his eyes shining and crinkling with amusement.

"I'm fine where I am, Eire," he affirmed with a frown. This was not the first time Ireland hinted or suggested independence.

"Bullocks!" the Irish redhead scoffed.

"I would appreciate it if you keep it down. The lad's sleeping," Arthur jumped in, interfering with whatever unreasonably derogatory retort Wales had.

"The brat's got a point… So how are you feeling Albion?" asked Scotland and suddenly the mood in the room shifted as the jubilant faces grew serious as they focused their attention on him.

"Yeah, and none of this, 'I'm fine' _shite_. We _know_ you're feeling _something_," agreed Wales as their eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

It's been a long time since he was subjected under the 'green gaze' which is basically just an event when two or more of the British Isles decided to look at anyone or anything directly.

"_You and your siblings Angleterre… you could even frighten Russia under that glare."_

"_You're overreacting, Frog. And it serves you right for insulting __**British**__ cooking."_

"_**Non**__, that's because you've grown used to it and your taste buds have all burned off. And I am not, overreacting, being under that gaze, it's unnerving for some strange reason."_

"_Really… maybe it's because we share the same eye color."_

"_Perhaps…" _

"Albion?" Wales called him to attention, noticing his blanked out gaze.

"I feel tired," he answered, refusing to address the brief slip to memory lane.

"To be honest I'm more worried about you Alba. It's been a while since –" he added only to be cut off.

"I'm a big boy. I can manage just fine. But you better not pull the 'I'm too depressed to attend your independence party' _shite_ on me or I'm going to beat into the next century," he warned, his frown features grew deeper as the other adopted an apologetic look of guilt.

"I – I'm sorry I missed the party…"

"You can make it up by hosting the next one," he brushed it off.

"I…I can't really commit to that."

"Yer too old to be bitter about this Albion," he growled, his eyes narrowed and sharpened as he neared his brother's laying form that went silent and stiff at the words.

"Albion?" he said, his tone growing worried as he reached out to see if the sibling was running a fever.

"Yer ice _cold_. Yer fucking _freezing_. How – _No_." Three pairs of eyes widened in horror, both sat frozen as they watched Scotland gingerly placed his fingers on their brother's neck only to feel the slowing pulse. For a brief moment, a memory came upon them.

Blond hair.

Green eyes.

Gentle smiles.

Cold hands.

A slowly beating heart.

"Alba, I – "

"No. NO!" he snapped.

"Alba, _please_."

"Yer not leaving us! You are _England_. Your people. Your land. They're still here. Strong. Prideful. You are not leaving. You are not fading!" He was standing now, body shaking with anger as his hands balled up so tight the knuckles turned white while his nails left deep indentions on his palms.

"I _used_ to be England. Now, I'm Britain. I haven't been England for a long time…" he wasn't meeting their gaze, it was too much. Too much pain. Too much sorrow.

"What are you talking about Albion?" Wales asked, his voice was almost a whisper, his hands lax, his body slumped as if in a trance.

Britain smiled. Painful. Stretched. Thin.

"I got too big… and I can't go back…"

"How long? How long have you known, you idiot!" It was Ireland this time, his face growing red while his hands found purchase of the chair's arms – the wood creaked beneath his grip.

"Eire… Cymru…"

"Answer the fucking question Albion," Scotland bellowed, his voice bouncing off the walls. Britain said nothing, only casting a glance at Peter. Realization set in like a heavy downpour. Loud. Incessant. Pounding upon the rooftops refusing to be ignored.

"There was a reason why I took on more of mum. Just as why, Peter took on more of me," he finally broke the silence, raising his eyes to meet their shadowed and haunted looks.

"What that why you asked us if you killed mum?" Wales said, reminding all three siblings of the fateful days when their beloved mother faded and when a teary eyed Albion came to them full of self blame and guilt despite their declarations of disagreement.

"I noticed it, you know. As she grew weaker. I grew stronger. Healthier. Ever step I took and every jump I conquered, her color faded, her eyes dulled and her hands lost strength," he recalled the painful memory of a once strong woman fall to pieces as he grew.

"Was that why you allowed yourself to be flogged and tortured under Rome's hand? As a form of penance!" Wales cried out. Another memory, fruitless rebellions and unsuccessful fights.

"And you didn't bother to tell any of us? We are brothers! Have you forgotten that!"

"There were times that I wanted to, Eire."

"Don't you _dare_ twist this one. You are dying. You are _fading_. What would have happened if that party went on till the early morn? What would have happened if Peter didn't decide to drop by?" Ireland's eyes flared, emotions churned within the green depths as Britain gave a heavy sigh.

"I would die alone. As I've always been."

Silence reigned upon them, along with a mixture of shock and hurt.

"Let's not delude ourselves. We haven't been the best of brothers for a long time. We talk yes. We understand. But this era is the closest thing we have to peace," he took a breath, deep and shuddering as he continued on with the explanation.

"I said nothing because I never wanted to influence or force you to choose. We are nations. Our people. Our government. They come first. Nothing will change that. This is my choice. Yes, we could alter the election. Change the results. We have the capacity. But it would _hurt_. Devastate _you_. I don't want that," his and Scotland's eyes met as if in silent debate.

"But you'll be alive," he replied, giving his hand tight squeeze hoping that at least some heat would transfer to the cool flesh.

"And be trapped in that cycle?" he grimaced, "Let's face it Alba. You'll eventually crack under the weight of your people's desire. Their dissatisfaction will eat and corrode you from the inside. There's a reason why we never take sides when it comes to these things. Contrary to what our leaders believe, we do not necessarily follow them because they are the leader.

"We follow them because despite our people's misgivings, distrust and complete and utter dislike for them, they still decide to follow, to obey. And as long as they do, we shall as well. My people believe in _England_. Not in Britain. Not anymore.

"There's a reason why we allow ourselves to be dictated by the majority, because on the literal sense of things they are _us_, and to be lost in their voices and desire is the most natural feeling in the world because that's what makes us a nation.

"And right now…right now, I am devoid of that feeling. I feel numb. I feel _broken_. So heavy. Tired like I can barely keep my eyes open," he admitted.

"It's his fault isn't it…"

All four brothers stiffened at the sound. All eyes turning to meet the girl half hiding by the entrance. Her gaze was bright, her hand curled as her nails digging into the wood of the doorway.

"How much did you here lass?" Scotland asked.

"Enough to know Arthur's going to die by midnight!" she snapped her eyes turning feral as they landed on the once thought to be sleeping child curled up on the bed. But he wasn't sleeping. He was in a trance. And all she needed to break that trance is to _touch_ him.

"It's not his fault," Arthur reproached, his eyes warning her not to do anything to the boy beside him. It made her bristle.

"Then who?" The questioned was stained with scorn, dripping with venom as she hissed and shook off Ireland when he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Nobody's," he sighed, a tired smile curled, "this is the Fate of every nation. And it's my time."

"I don't want you to leave," she kneeled beside him, her eyes pleading.

"Nobody does. You know that right? _We_ don't want _this_," Ireland added.

"I know," he nodded in acceptance.

"So what happens now?" Wales asked.

"I don't suppose it'll be selfish of me to ask you all to take care of Peter?" his smiled rather bitterly, when he saw North's jaw clench and her body stiffen.

"Aye, it's mighty selfish. But we'll do it anyway. We're family after all," her voice shook when she said it, faltering and soft but true. She will grow to understand and forgive. She will learn to accept. They all will.

"Kirklands till the end," Ireland said as he stood, grabbing to hold his cold unmoving hand as if sending a silent message.

_I forgive you. My people may not but __**I**__ do._

Albion mouthed a silent thank you in turn.

"A dysfunctional insane family but family all the same," Wales declared, making all of them smile.

Albion yawned.

"Alba…" his voice was soft, weak, whispering like a soft breeze.

"Yes, Albion," he answered while the others fell silent and waiting.

"I don't hate you… I haven't hated you for a very _very_ long time," he said with smile, so soft and bright that it made them _crack_.

"Ye _eeejit._ Ye bloody selfish _eeejit,"_ Scotland muttered, tears falling as he choked off a sob.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the weeping siblings.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No…" he shook his head, "just sleepy…"

"I'm sure Peter will grow up nice and strong, he's already got the stubbornness down… right Cymru?" said Ireland, nudging an elbow to Wales' side.

"Aye, he's a brat though. But that's nothing new there," he mused with a nostalgic smile

"I'm sure you'll manage. You _all_ will."

"What is it North?" he turned his attention to her, seeing the hesitance in her big bright eyes.

"D-Do… Do you want a lullaby?" his eyes widen at the question as she continued to stammer out, "your lullabies always helped me sleep… so I thought –"

"It would be lovely. Thank you, North," he assured as he watched her took a long breath of calm before she went into a song – a song that falter and cracked under her sadness and grief but beautiful and pure all the same.

"Loo-li,loo-li,lai-lay, Loo-li,loo-li,lai-lay… Lay down your head, and I'll sing you a lullaby – back to the years of loo-li,lai-lay. And I'll sing you to sleep... and I'll sing you tomorrow...Bless you with love, for the road that you go."

"_Keep up brat!"_

"_But Alba, 'm tired."_

"_Let the child rest, Alba."_

"_The brat needs to toughen up, Eire. Cymru seems to be doing just fine."_

"_Màthair__ is not going to like this, he is too young to be join us in long hunts."_

"_Don' ye start too! Oh, fine. Oi, brat we stop here for the night."_

"_But I thought –" _

"_Shut yer greggy and start gatherin' firewood. Ye want yer stories right?"_

"_Aye!"_

"May you sail fair, to the far fields of fortune. With diamonds and pearls, at your head and your feet, and may you need never to banish misfortune. May you find kindness, in all that you meet."

"_Gaul! Gaul! Look at what I found?"_

"_What? Another weed from your swamp?"_

"_I thought you like plants and stuff…"_

"_So it __**is**__ another weed… honestly, if you give me another bush, I – __**Oh!**__"_

"_Do you like it? They call it a rose."_

"_It's beautiful! Where?"_

"_In my land, where else?"_

"_This is __**yours**__?"_

"_Yes. Why? You better not be planning on stealing my flowers Gaul!"_

"_Please, it is not considering stealing if you gave it to me. But nonetheless, __**merci**__, Albion."_

"_T-This is just payment for the rabbits you gave me."_

"_Of course it is, along with the varied bushes and herbs you invade my garden with."_

"May there always be angels, to watch over you. To guide you each step of the way. To guard you and keep you, safe from all harm. Loo-li,loo-li,lai-lay."

"_Cannot we all just sleep together like always?"_

"_Nae! Don' ye lots look at me like that! Fine! Nothin' but wee bairns I tell you!"_

"_Let 'im be Albion. He just tryin' to act all grown up, he is."_

"_Why? Is there something wrong with sleeping together, Eire?"_

"_We cannae be always there for you Albion. Ye need to learn to things on yer own."_

"_But –" _

"_Listen, brat. We will protect ye so long as we are able. But there will come a time when ye will grow up an' be all alone. An' when that time comes ye need to be strong for yerself and yer people. Ya ken?" _

"_A-Aye…"_

"_But it is chankin the night so I guess we could huddle up together…"_

"_Really!"_

"_Aye, but don' get used to it. Now, go help Cymru in setting up the wards."_

"_Aye!"_

"_Softie."_

"_Belt it, Eire."_

"May you bring love, and may you bring happiness. Be loved in return, to the end your days. Now fall off to sleep, I'm not meaning to keep you, I'll just sit for awhile, and sing loo-li,lai-lay. May there always be angels, to watch over you, to guide you each step of the way, to guard you and keep you, safe from all harm. Loo-li,loo-li,lai-lay, Loo-li,loo-li,lai-lay."

Albion smiles as his eyes drifted shut, his breathing slowed, his hands went heavy and slack. He sleeps and dreams forever.

"Sleep well, Albion."

* * *

Peter awoke from a thought to be dreamless sleep with the sounds of chaos and grief.

"Where is he?"

_Was that America?_ He wondered as he stood up from the bed, his bare feet soundless as it walked through the halls, following the thunderous medley of accented voices.

"Alfred, calm down." The voice was low, airy in a certain sense and he couldn't help remember the time when he impersonated the said speaker.

"No! Where is he Scotland?" America's voice grew louder, thundering in indignation so unfamiliar that he didn't dare quicken his pace. A part of him was afraid, quelling the curious urge in his body.

"Alfred, stop. Listen." Canada's voice got firmer. Strangely commanding despite its odd airy nature.

"No! You've heard what they're saying! They're saying Arthur's _gone_. It's some twisted prank –"

_Smack! _

The sound was enough to make him pause, adding more to his hesitation.

"How dare you!" The voice was distinctly Welsh and from the sounds of it, Wales was angry as hell.

_They're fighting. _He concluded, a small frown of confusion marred his face as he tried to piece together what he'd just heard. One statement stood out the most.

"_They're saying Arthur's __**gone**__."_

_**No! **_His eyes widened as a sudden gush of information came to him, sending him to his knees. In the thrum of the flowing chaos in his head he began to take note of certain things.

He felt _strange_. He could feel a distinct hammering of pride and strength within him. His lungs filled with a confidence that shouldn't have been there. His back, his posture, as he stood back up albeit shakily, felt straighter. Stiffer. As if his body was being compelled by an unseen force.

And then came a forgotten dream.

"_Jerkland! Where are you going?" The jerk merely smiled, far too soft for his liking._

"_Of course, how could I forget. I never said my goodbyes to you now did I?" _

"_Goodbye?" his brows furrowed in confusion as the jerk placed a hand on his head. For some strange reason he didn't dare brush it off._

_He nodded, going down to his knees to meet him in eye level. His inner alarms blared telling him that something was not right. _

"_Arthur? Is something wrong?"_

"_No, Peter. Nothing's wrong." He shook his head, offering him a fond look while every bone in Peter's body was screaming. _

_**LIAR!**_

"_You should go back. This is not a proper place for you." The word __**yet**__ lay unspoken between them. He doesn't move. He __**refused**__ to move. Instead of the expected furrow of frustration, Jerkland smiled __**again**__ and it grated on his very nerve._

_**Stop smiling and tell me what's wrong. Britain. Jerkland. Arthur! **__He was crying and he didn't notice until Arthur was wiping the tears away as he placed a kiss upon his brow. A blessing. A sign of acknowledgement. _

"_Hush… tears are unfitting for such a nation. Go back, you are needed there Eng…" _

"Where is England?" The distraught voice broke through the muddle of memories and dreams.

"Here's right here. I'm England." The words left his lips before his mind could register, and all of the sudden, he felt all their gazes upon him.

He felt his shoulder square, his back straightening as old lesson came into memory.

"_**When you enter a room, keep in mind who you are. You are a nation. Do not allow them to say otherwise." **_

"S-Sealand?" America's eyes were wide, alongside with France and Canada. Arthur's siblings didn't look much surprised by his declaration.

"It's England," he corrected on reflex, he resisted the urge to bite down his lip in discomfort.

_What's happening to me?_ His lips thinned, as his hands balled up even tighter, he didn't like how he seemed to lose control of his words and actions. He didn't like being subjected to another's will aside from his own.

"_**You must be proud. Strong. Do not allow anyone to see through your fear and even if they do. Never back down."**_

"That's a lie! You are nothing but a fucking fort!"

"I am England. I am Peter Kirkland. And you have no right to question me as a fellow na –" Once again the words slipped only to be cut off when America grabbed him by the collar bringing up to eye level. His eyes widened in surprise, both in the presence of the bright burning blue flames indignation in his fellow nation's eyes as well as the fact that he'd grown _taller_.

Not as tall as America but _still_.

"That's enough, _Amerique_! He may not look like it but he's still a child!" France and the rest pulled the larger nation off of him while America screamed accusations at him.

"I don't care! You killed him! You killed Arthur!"

_Did I?_ The realization hit him like a wrecking ball, demolishing the bricks of ignorance as he gasped feeling a familiar prickling at the back of his eyes.

_Hold it in, Peter. Don't let them fall. You are a nation now. Act like it._

"Stop it! Control yourselves. Arthur wouldn't want this!" the voice was shrill, distraught and feminine. The men stopped at the sound of sobbing, and as they allowed their grips to slack, America fell with a dull thud on the floor, curled up on his knees like a child.

"He's gone, _Amerique_," France said, as he leant a shoulder while Canada rubbed comforting circles on his brother's back. America latched on to them tight and unyielding as if to say, _please don't go too_.

"Come on Peter, let's get you cleaned up." He turned to meet his Uncle Ireland's gaze, it took all his will power to nod and leave things be. Once they were in the safety of his room, a room that looked a little stuffier and small, he _snapped_.

"He has no right!" The ire boiled up on his tongue telling him to go back and make them acknowledge him, hear him justify himself. It was like a burning itch that needed to be quenched. The rest of the words spilled from his lips like hot vitriol.

Since when did his self-entitlement get so strong? Since when did he feel so compelled to fight and argue?

He tried keeping it in and he felt like his heart wanted to _explode_.

"Peter! Just let it out!" Scotland was shaking his shoulders while Wales and the two Irelands stood at the background hovering with concern.

"I'm young, I get it. I'm not Arthur, I get it. I wanted to be recognized as a nation, I get it. I once pretended to be Canada, I get it. B-But I would never – I would never, _never_ wish him gone," he said shaking, desperately trying to stay calm with deep harrowing breaths.

_It wasn't __**working**__. _

"D-Do you blame me?" his voice stuttered, afraid and tired.

"No." The four voices echoed in unison. It calmed him. Just a little but it helped.

"Then who?" he asked, the tightness of his voice apparent as his voice cracked.

"Nobody's," North answered, resolute and accepting, her green eyes bright and red-edged with her own grief.

"Do you think I can do this?" he whispered, quelling the inner voice that told him yes.

_Yes. YES. __**YES**__._

"You have time…" Scotland shrugged, they watched him curl up defensively on his bed.

"What if I mess up?" Head down and afraid, he was not ready to meet their gazes.

"Then you'll learn." Wales' voice was hard, insisting and confident because they all know the truth.

He will learn whether he likes it or not.

"How… How do I look?" he was hesitant, finally looking up to see their observing eyes upon him.

"Older. 16 I think… your eyes… are green now," Ireland answered.

"What? Why?" he expected growth and age but never a change in eye color.

"It's a British Isles thing," North piped up with a casualness that seemed unusual for the situation.

"Oh." That was the only thing his mind could dish out at the moment. He was about to add something but a gnawing pain began to overtake him. It felt like his very bones were being burrowed into while his nerves and muscles got stretched to its limits.

"Growing hurts… It's expected. You're literally growing up too fast. Might take a day or two to stabilize." He heard Scotland said as he felt a blanket covering him. The warmth was comforting.

"Do you guys hate me?" his teeth chattered and he felt so cold, it could only be a fever.

"Why would you think that we hate you? You're family Peter. Always was and always will. Never forget that." The incredulousness of Ireland's tone calmed him, his frayed nerves and chills kept him on edge.

"T-Thanks."

"Get some rest, you're gonna need it." He didn't have the capacity to answer Wales so he just nodded in acknowledgement. They stayed with him. Through the pains and flashes of heat and cold, they stayed. Only when did he finally, _finally_ drifted off did they allowed him his privacy.

"Rest well, England," they whispered in soft acknowledgement, and it was enough to make his shoulders slump and breathing even. It was enough.

Peter once dreamed of being a nation. To feel the thrum of his industry. The echoing pound of dreams and aspirations of his people. The strength and pride. The sweet taste of achievement and victory. Now, as he suffers through the growing pains of rapidly growing bones and nerves, he never thought that he of all people would think that such sweet dreams could become such bitter nightmares.

**-END-**

**A/N:** I apologize for the OOCness of the characters, the canon deviations, accent fails (feel free to correct me on these) and grammar mistakes (this too). I used my previous stories **The Act of Remembering** and **The Act of Counting** as reference and basis but you don't need to read either to understand what's going on. Comments would be lovely.

**Translations:**

_Màthair_ – means Mother

_mon lapin_ – French endearment, means my rabbit

_eeejits_ – idiots

_ken_ –know or understand

_cannae_ – cannot

_guttered_ – drunk

_greggy_ – mouth

_It is chankin the night_ – it is cold tonight

**P.S. **This story, used some elements of the upcoming Scottish Independence election but focuses more on the Kirkland brother's relationships are "persons", the outcome of the elections in this story does not voice my opinion on the matter and I apologize if this story offended anyone. I own nothing.


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